


And I eat men like air

by amorremanet



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 100 things: reference prompts, Angst, Anonymity, Anonymous Sex, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Character Study, Cock Tease, Community: homebrewbingo, Community: kink_bingo, Community: teenwolfkink, Depression, Dom/sub, F/F, F/M, Hurt Lydia Martin, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Health Issues, Mirrors, Objectification, Out of Body Experiences, Sexual Fantasy, Sexual Frustration, Silence Kink, Switch Lydia Martin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-09
Updated: 2012-10-09
Packaged: 2017-11-15 20:54:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/531590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amorremanet/pseuds/amorremanet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>All of this, everything about it, is aimed at getting Lydia out of her own head. Or out of her own body. She can't tell which option's right—nothing feels good, nothing feels right, nothing feels like anything at all, except for when she's using boys she doesn't know.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	And I eat men like air

**Author's Note:**

> This was written, first and foremost, for [this prompt](http://teenwolfkink.livejournal.com/5710.html?thread=5557582#t5557582) on the Teen Wolf Kink Meme: _Lydia riding some guy, thinking about everything and nothing (I don't know, her to-do-list, Jackson kissing boys, Allison's cleavage, science project, her panties ripped to pieces.)_
> 
> Other prompts used here are: "gags/silence," "mirrors/doubles," "WILD CARD (objectification kink)," "authority figures," and "begging" as a single-line fill for kink_bingo; "depression" for hc_bingo; "for the world is hollow" for [100 things](http://amor-remanet.livejournal.com/560177.html); and the postage stamp of, "sexual frustration," "breath," "protectiveness," and "forbidden pleasures" for homebrewbingo.

Lydia can't help wondering, as she throws him to the bed, _what kind of guy has a bigger vanity mirror than I do?_ A narcissist, most likely. Or otherwise someone who can't hardly stand up on his own. Insecure, fussy, obsessive-compulsive, attentive enough to detail that Jackson, stacked up next to him, would look positively messy. No matter, though—he doesn't matter, period.

She sighs, arches her eyebrow down at him so he knows to stay put, and brushes her fingers all up and down her sides, fumbling over the hem of her blouse, then the buttons, the zipper on her skirt. She sheds the outfit like a chrysalis, clicks her tongue at What's His Name—Max or Mark or Maverick or she doesn't know, it's something with an M—when he tries to sit up, catch a glimpse of her taking off her bra. Stupid boy, thinking that he's allowed to move, allowed to enjoy her the way she's going to do him. In a manner of speaking.

Because it's not about him and never was. Because Lydia never enjoys the boys she takes to bed. She barely gets any _joy_ from Jackson, not that they've had each other that much lately. All of this, everything about it, is aimed at getting Lydia out of her own head. Or out of her own body. She can't tell which option's right—nothing feels good, nothing feels right, nothing feels like anything at all, except for when she's using boys she doesn't know.

What's His Name isn't anything to her. Nothing but a prop, a toy, and his over-inflated opinion of himself had better live up to the expectations he's setting for his cock. Even with how little fuss he put up over the leather strap worked around his scrotum and the base of his shaft, she's unimpressed—neither length nor girth is anything to write home about, and without assistance, he probably wouldn't be able to last long enough to please her.

Lydia huffs, blows a stray clump of hair out of her eyes, can't really be bothered when it flops back into place. She drags her nails down her hips, all along the bone and flesh, nudges her panties down. Once they hit her knees, she just lets them drop in a heap to the floor. Picks them up and brings them with her as she crawls up onto the mattress, scrapes her calves along the rough flannel sheets, moves to straddle his hips and stare down at him like she's found him in the trash. She may as well have, anyway.

"Sit up," she chirps at him, hovering near his cock, teasing her hips toward it and teasing her labia along his shaft but never actually taking him on—not yet, anyway. Not until he's good and worked up. Just like he agreed to when she asked if he wanted to be her sex toy.

Shivering, he obeys and crowds into her personal space, breath reeking like mouthwash while the rest of him stinks like sweat and cheap aftershave. His huge, rough hands settle on her hips; he drums his fingers along her lower back, edging onto her buttocks; and she refuses to look at him, much less look him in the eye. Even when she wilts into his untoned chest, even when she curls her fingers up in his hair and rests her chin on his soft, warm shoulder, even when she bucks against him and worms her hips along his, she keeps her eyes on the mirror, on her own reflection, on the dazed, glazed-over look in her eyes and the careless fall of her hair.

"The rules are simple, so keep them in mind." She might as well tell this to herself. Groping blindly, she fumbles for where she dropped her panties and takes three tries to grab them up. She pulls back and finally looks at him, gives him her too-practiced pout and says, "You are my dildo. Dildos do not move. Dildos do not touch me—" She yanks on the hair knotted up between her slim fingers and when he gasps, winces, cries out in pained, broken syllables, she smiles just enough that it almost feels like something. She almost feels a spark in her chest.

And, better yet, he lets go of her, doesn't fight back when she smacks his wrist. Or when she stretches out her panties, pulls them taut over his open mouth, shoves him down by the shoulder, hoping that it doesn't hurt (but only because then, she might have to pretend to care about him and his feelings, she might have to stay anchored to the world and to some aspect of her façade, because he could make life at school infinitely harder for her, if she hurts him and he gets a mind to go around, telling everyone that she's a cold hard bitch and a whack-job in the bedroom, too).

"And most importantly? My dildos do not talk. So say anything—make any noise at all—and I'll find myself a new one," she says, trailing her fingers down his chest and stomach, from collarbone to just above his cock, pausing to knead gently into the bit of pudge along his waistline—he squirms as she digs in her nails, gives him a pensive hum.

All the boys she usually takes are so athletic, toned; they have defined abdominals and strive to look like _Men's Health_ cover models, which makes sense, considering where she finds them. She's had everyone on the lacrosse team, except for Danny, Scott, and Greenberg, all for the sake of making Jackson perform up to her standards, and it's sort of nice that What's His Name is something different. It doesn't get her wet, or hot, or anything she wants, though—not like the face Jackson might make to see her now. He'd probably get all huffy, blushing bright red and demanding to know what's so great about this loser, with his average dick and the physique earned from one too many late-night Twinkie binges.

Or is something wrong with Lydia that Jackson needs to fix, because he isn't going to, not anymore, not this time, he's over their whatever it was where she got to push him around all the time and talk down to him and he kinda liked it. He'd say all this as though he never cared at all, because the truth is that he did and that's what scares him. And either way, Lydia wouldn't have an answer for him. She could shrug, give him an ever-so-slight smile and a quirk of her perfectly tweezed brows, but that would be it. She's not obligated to give him anything more than that, anything more detailed. Not the way he's obligated to blush like all his insides are squirming with the shame of how much he likes it when she takes control.

But there's so much left to do yet, anyway. Lydia sighs and shakes her head, lets her hair fall where it will, in strawberry-blonde curtains between her and the rest of this boy's room. He trembles as she looks down at him. His eyes go wider, just enough for her to notice, and she sighs, exasperated—it's taking too long for her to get wet, get ready for this. Why is it taking so long? It never usually takes this long. She rocks her hips back and forth, and back and forth, and into a steady rhythm, and it occurs to her that she could use this encounter as leverage—she could hold it over Jackson's head, remind him how much he loves to hear that some social reject losers are better than he is in bed. She could get all kinds of things out of him, all because he'd want to prove himself to her again.

Maybe she could even use this leverage to get the one thing she wants that Jackson's never given her. She traces spirals all along What's His Name's stomach—shivers as she does so, because even the faint, fast-fading impression of those shapes hits an off-key, icicle chord, makes the hairs on her nape and arms stand up like she's just been shocked, and she feels something, some inkling of something that she has to do, but she has no idea why. So she keeps tracing them. She drags her finger through What's His Name's soft, pudgy swell of a belly—she smacks him on the side and the whole thing jiggles in a way that Jackson would never let himself achieve; and a smirk slices across her face. Oh, yes, she could definitely use this. Taunt Jackson with every single one of his imaginary physical flaws and have him on his knees, begging her to make out with another guy while she watches.

Danny would be Lydia's first choice. Danny, or maybe Scott. Or why not both of them—both is good. Jackson would look so precious, sandwiched between lean, rangy Scott and Danny's shredded six-pack. Maybe they'd make him look small, the two of them together. Jackson would start with Danny because of how he feels about Scott—he'd start off slow and too cautious, pecking at the corner of Danny's mouth until Danny caught him by the jaw, drew him further in, sucked on his lower lip. Scott wouldn't get to kiss Jackson on the mouth just yet, so he'd come from behind and pin Jackson to Danny's chest—though maybe that's too strong a term? Scott's too gentle for that. He wouldn't make it so Jackson couldn't move at all, but he'd crowd in on Jackson's space, trail his fingers up and down Jackson's sides (maybe stopping for the dip around his hipbones but on the other hand? maybe not), nose up and down the curve of Jackson's neck, the angles of his jaw.

Scott would sniff Jackson like he's trying to find out what's for dinner, and while Danny reached down to cop a feel of Jackson's ass, Scott would lean around and start kissing him. Jackson would need to lean his head back to accommodate this, and he would, because Jackson wilts without attention, pales without someone taking care of his mouth or his neck—and Scott kisses like a beast. He's gentle, sure, but he kisses with a mind and force that would wreck Jackson's world completely, especially with how much they hate each other—with how much Jackson hates Scott and how frustrated Scott gets with Jackson, at any rate. Scott might even bat Danny's hand away from Jackson's ass, whip him around. Maybe he really would pin Jackson to Danny's chest, all from the force of battering into him, kissing him hard enough that Jackson's lips could easily end up bleeding—Scott and Danny could buck their hips against Jackson at the same time and make him scream, or whine, or otherwise curl up from _needfuckwant_.

That's enough for her, and fucking finally—Lydia's breath comes in a warbling gasp as she rocks her hips against What's His Name—her heart flutters and her stomach quivers, and when she squirms, she feels the wet spot between her legs trying to leave a trail on his skin. She's ready. Thank God—foreplay's such a hassle and it misleads boys into thinking that she actually wants them, for whatever reason.

Again, she watches herself in the mirror. Looks away from What's His Name's pale skin and his stomach and watches as she works him over, teasing her fingers into his soft flesh, leaning forward to rub herself, the inside of her thigh, along his shaft and bracing herself on his belly—it makes her head spin and her heart try to drop into her intestines, makes her breath catch in her throat. She's done this before—seen herself like this before—seen herself from the outside, with this floating, weightless feeling, and it's still so strange. Her reflection looks pale, flat, and half-awake. She only flushes—only makes a sound (a whining, strangled gasp) when she rocks her hips backward, spreads her legs, and takes in his cock, slowly lowers herself onto him, thinking of anything but where she is and what she's up to—outside herself completely.

That's how it always goes. Lydia's thoughts meander further than she can keep track of when she uses boys like this, when she takes their cocks on and devours them for her own pleasure, clenches her legs around their hips and her muscles around their girth. But as her eyes flutter… As they slip shut and she slips further outside herself, to watching her face flush pink and contort itself into some faint, scrunched up look… As she watches herself feel What's His Name's cock filling her up, instead of feeling it herself…

This time, Lydia's mind wanders off to somewhere new—and somewhere old, at the same time. Somewhere familiar. A classroom—it should be Finstock's econ classroom, but the teacher sitting on the desk has black spoke heels and milk-pale legs, calves more defined than Finstock has in his wildest dreams. Lydia rocks forward, nudges her hips back and down, taking him in further. She leans forward, down toward him but with enough space that he won't get any weird ideas about her actually being into him; she rests her arms on What's His Name's chest and her own imaginary desk—she forces her eyes to open so she can trace them over his soft chest, his round face, the wall and up to the ceiling, and as far as Lydia cares about any of this, she trails them up her pretend teacher's body.

And she doesn't gasp because of how she slips around him—how she knocks herself down further and knocks him deeper into her—but because of how clear her teacher's face is in her mind. Square-ish and harsh, thin-lipped and eagle-eyed, pale as the chalk scrawls on the board behind her, with a shock, a burst of short, crimson hair. Lydia drops one of her hands to rub at her clit—What's His Name is filling enough, but she needs some extra attention, extra care given to her ability to enjoy this as much as she ever enjoys any part of this—she catches her clit between her fingers and rubs her thumb over top of it in long, smooth circles, up and down, back and forth, all around, in the same rhythm that she goes at his cock, all rocking her hips and riding him—and still, the image of her teacher doesn't change or go away.

Lydia lets her lips loose, lets her jaw drop ever-so-slightly and her mouth fall open, lets her tongue slip up and whisper, _Victoria_ , which she only even knows because she overheard Allison's parents in mid-argument, once. Victoria, feminine, derived from the Latin—either a feminine form of _Victor_ , meaning exactly what it sounds like, or a first-declension adjective in its own right, meaning _victorious_ —a pretty name and a fitting definition, at any rate and quite regardless of the etymology. Victoria—like the Queen, the Spokesman for the Department of State, and the Spice Girl—like the leader of the Gallic Empire otherwise known as Vitruvia. Victoria, like someone—her parents or whoever named her—wanted to make sure that no one would think this woman a force to be trifled with, much less taken for granted.

Victoria, who isn't real, at least not like this—she's just a figment of Lydia's imagination shaped like the real Victoria Argent, and that makes it okay when she strides over to Lydia's desk in long, cold, fluid motions, clacking her heels and squeaking her toes on the linoleum and carrying a wicked yardstick. And an expression like an iceberg—any shift that might come, it's imperceptible—Lydia doesn't flinch, doesn't look anywhere but in Victoria's eyes, and she still can't make out any subtle changes in her face, not even a blink or quirk of her eyebrows. Which just emphasizes that this isn't real, that Lydia's not going to run up against some rules she might break because it isn't happening—she spreads her legs a little further, trying to work What's His Name's dick in deeper, and that makes Victoria finally arch her eyebrow—and Lydia's heart plummets to her stomach with a head-spinning chill.

One look from the real Victoria like that and Lydia's not sure what she'd do. Then again, she's not sure why she's having sexual thoughts about her best friend's mother—maybe she wouldn't do anything, maybe she could keep herself together like she always does, like she manages over everything else that's ever happened. Doesn't matter. Not that much. Lydia sighs, gasps again when fake-Victoria smacks the yardstick on the desk—a shock courses up her spine, sets her back arching and throws her neck back for her, and her hair slips around her shoulders, then down to one side and splays all over What's His Name—she winces and her hands curl up, her fingertips dig into What's His Name's flesh again, when Victoria cracks the yardstick over her knuckles. She whimpers as if she's feeling it for real, as if she's really hearing the snap of wood, seeing the thin piece of opened skin slice open underneath the ruler's edge.

 _You know more than you've been letting on, Lydia_ , Victoria snaps at her, voice as arctic and unmoving as it ever is. _I won't have that in my classroom, or in my house. I won't have you doing that around my daughter—nothing that might put her in danger is acceptable. So here's how this works, Miss: I ask you questions, you give me answers, and if you don't tell me the whole truth, I rap your knuckles another time. If you outright lie to me? You get my ruler twice—do I make myself perfectly clear?_

Of course she does—Lydia chirps, _crystal_ , but in the real world, it just comes out as a strangled, choked-sounding, half-dead noise—and that's not exactly incentive for Lydia to behave herself or to open up. None of it is, but she doesn't say that. Doesn't even imply it. She just listens to all the questions that Victoria throws at her—what all has been happening to her lately (meaning, since the winter formal and since her nudist psychogenic fugue state); why did she write backwards on the chalkboard and what did she see when she did so, if anything; how has she been feeling—and gives her the first answer that comes to mind, even though it's usually more than a little bit fictitious, even though the only thing that it could possibly reveal is the processes underlying Lydia's free-association. If anyone ever wanted to pick those things apart.

Lydia doesn't—she hardly wants to consider anything, anything more than the fake-cracks of the fake-ruler on her knuckles and how Victoria has the power to do this to her, how she couldn't fight back if she wanted to, because there could be some kind of classroom repercussion—or worse, Victoria could keep her from seeing Allison. _Whatever it is you're doing puts my daughter at risk and I won't stand for it, Lydia_ , Victoria says—and Lydia sinks further onto him. Her ass finally hits his hips and, out of nowhere, the image in her mind changes—it's still an Argent, but without thinking on it, she knows the flush of those tits and the black bra with the eight ball design—she sighs, kneading at her clit, pulling up his cock so she can rock back down on him harder—and she can't help herself when the syllables trip out in the real world, _Allison_.

What's His Name startles a bit at that—at least, he makes some noise that sounds suspiciously like, _wait, what?_ and Lydia's eyes flutter open despite her deep breath and her attempt to glue them shut. And he blinks up at her with eyes like saucers—and it drags Lydia back into her body, back into the real world, back into looking him in the eyes, narrowing hers at him because what did she tell him about talking back. So she digs her nails into his flesh again—claws at him and gets him yelping from the pain, then shuts her eyes and goes back to the image she had before—goes back to letting her eyes linger over Allison's breasts, then Allison's neck, then Allison's full lips and apple cheeks, her untamable tangle of black hair. Something's wrong, though—Lydia feels What's His Name's dick too much, too strongly. He strains against her walls, pushes back against her—and Allison moves around inside her mind. Allison does something more than let Lydia watch her.

Allison rounds on her with this hungry glint in her eyes—hungry like an animal, hungry like the edge of a knife is hungry for a throat to slit. That's kind of a weird simile, isn't it. Lydia sighs as this thought occurs to her, as she clenches tighter around What's His Name—why would she even think about that—oh well, it probably doesn't mean anything. Ms. Morrell would disagree, but Ms. Morrell gets paid to read too much into things. Her opinion on Lydia's mental health is inherently biased by that fact. And anyway, it fits for how Allison looks at her, how her eyes steel over as she straddles Lydia's hips, grips her wrists as though she wants to leave behind bruise impressions of her fingers, pins Lydia to her mattress.

She growls and twists her hand around Lydia's skin, leans down and stretches out on top of her, swoops in and shrouds over Lydia's whole body—she lips up Lydia's jaw and cheek and snarls right into her ear, _Beg for me, Princess. You'd never demean yourself for anybody, but you're going to do it for me. You want to get off? Then **beg** for me—_ She clenches harder; her next twist chafes Lydia's skin and she growls again— _ **Beg for me**._

And she does—she tries to keep it from the real world, but she's too far gone to make a difference. Rubbing at her clit speeds up, gets her fingers working faster and she rocks faster, harder against What's His Name's cock, and the words come flying out of her mouth—just one word, repeated over and over and over again— _Allison… Allison… Allison…_ with only one more thrown in to punctuate it, ever— _please… Allison, please… Allison, Allison, please, Allison… **please** …_ At least she doesn't have to feel herself come, doesn't have to feel the white hot wave that courses through her—when Lydia crashes back into her body, as she pulls back off of him, as she retrieves her panties from his mouth, as she undoes the velcro fastening What's His Name's leather strap around his cock, all she feels is the relief. The warmth cascading through her, the rush of endorphins that she's been sorely lacking.

He sits up, once she's off of him for long enough, once she's worming back into her panties, fastening her bra (with her back turned to him because he's seen enough of her for one lifetime, thank you very much). And sheepishly, he asks, _well, what about me_.

Lydia doesn't give him an answer until she's buttoned up her blouse. "What about you?" she says, and shrugs. She arches an eyebrow at his slicked up cock and huffs. "Take care of it yourself. You'd know what you need better than anybody else. And anyway? It's none of my concern what you do."


End file.
